


We Simply Speak

by Catchclaw



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blind Date, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Romance, Sastiel - Freeform, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-29
Updated: 2012-07-29
Packaged: 2017-11-11 00:26:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/472401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam lets Dean and Lisa talk him into a blind date. And when the guy, Cas, is late, Sam starts to wonder if the whole thing wasn’t a terrible idea. But then Cas shows, and what do you know? It's kismet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Simply Speak

**Author's Note:**

> **Written for the Great Blind Sassy Exchange 2012 on tumblr.**   
>  _For jjarpad’s prompt: Sam tries a blind date and meets Cas._

He’s late.

Which is always a great sign.

I lean back and try not to stare down every rain-soaked dude that scurries by.

The funny thing is, I don’t even know what he looks like. Lisa’s description was kinda vague: dark hair, blue eyes. Dean’s never even met him. And I couldn’t find any photos online, either, no matter how I spelled his name: Castiel? Cas? Cass? Nothing.

Maybe he’s a privacy freak. Or a Luddite. Or one of the those people who’s convinced that the black helicopters are hovering overhead, just waiting for the word from NATO to strike.

Awesome.

I check my watch again. Yeah, he’s definitely late. Not too much, but enough so the bartender keeps giving me sympathetic eyes (not gonna happen, buddy) and the flowers across the table from me seem more sad than romantic, now. Sorta pathetic.

Why did I let myself get talked into this, again? What the hell was I thinking?

“Dude, face it. You’re fucking lonely,” Dean’d said, wrangling the last burger off the grill.

He looked up quick, the “oh shit, there’s a kid!” alarm on his face. Saw Ben running in circles with Pasha and turned right the fuck back to me. Pointed. Daring me to correct him.

I rolled my eyes and took a long swig of beer and he said: “Ah ha! See? I knew it.”

He dumped the plate of burgers on the table and threw himself into the chair beside me.

I didn’t say anything. Because, whatever.

“Whatever,” I huffed, tipping my chair back. “I’m busy. I’ve got too much shit going on to—”

He waved his beer at me, scowling.

“Bullshit. You’re not too busy to be over here every other night, messing with my woman and corrupting my kid,” he said, his grin taking the sting out. Mostly.

I looked away, watched Pasha shoot between Ben’s legs, her fur flying. She sent him sprawling, both of them howling.

Dean sighed. Banged his hand on my thigh and leaned over. Serious.

“Sammy. Look. You know I just want you to be happy.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I muttered, because I did know. I do. Because, at some level, I know he’s never wanted anything else, that him finding it first was just a fluke, not something either of us had planned.

He’d run into her on a bus, of all places. Dean hates buses. But we were in Minneapolis, the Impala was being moody, and Dean was getting, quote unquote, “sick of your fucking face, Sam.” So he hopped on a bus to go to a movie or something and there she was: the love of his fucking life, in a different city, with a different haircut, with a new job and everything. Someplace neither of them was supposed to be, but damn. They found each other, again. Just like that.

“It’s kismet,” she likes to say, her smile tucked into his throat.

“Dumb luck,” he mouths over her head, one arm tight around her waist.

Whatever it is, it works. And I know he wants that for me, too, that magic bullet that’ll set all of my planets in line.

His face softened, then, but he gripped me a little tighter. “I mean, I know school’s important to you and everything, but you’ve gotta live a little, you know? I mean, we can’t let this opportunity go to waste, right? All of this normal life shit.”

“Yeah,” I said again. “You’re right. You’re right, I’m just—I’m afraid I’ll screw it all up, if I try anything. It’s like: we’ve got what we’ve got, Dean. It’s good. And I don’t want to rock the cosmic boat or whatever. Make the universe rethink everything and take it all back.”

And that’s why I shouldn’t talk to him after I’ve had more than two beers. It’s exactly why he pushes booze into my hand the second I’m through their front door.

He reached out and ruffled my hair.

“Sammy,” he said. A little sad. “When are you gonna accept that you’re safe? That it’s over.”

I leaned back again, the chair creaking, until I could see the sky.

“Probably never,” I admitted, as much myself as to him.

The screen door slammed and Lisa scurried out, a beer in one hand and a big bowl of salad in the other.

“Hey,” she said, breathless. “Sorry. Work called and I had to—”

Dean plucked the bowl from her hands and leaned up for a kiss.

“‘S ok,” he said, after a second. “I was just telling Sam here about your co-worker. The one you wanna set him up with.”

“What?!” I barked.

Lisa grinned over at me. “Oh,” she said, this knowing little thing in her eyes. “Good. You’ll like him, Sam.”

Then Ben rushed over, Pasha at his heels, and the blind date bullshit got lost in the shuffle of food and excited kid talk and beer and this really persistent swarm of bees that kept moseying by, dive-bombing the pie and skating right under Pasha’s nose.

So I’d basically forgotten about it by the time Dean chased Ben up to bed and Lisa and I cleared the table, took everything inside and started working it all into the sink.

But she hadn’t.

“So,” she said, giving me that big grin. “Dean told you about Cas, huh?”

And if it had been Dean asking, I would have told him to go fuck himself and driven it home with a fist, if necessary. But it was Lisa, damn it. I couldn’t say no to her. And I’d be willing to bet money they’d planned it that way.

She took my silence as a form of acquiescence.

“He’s quirky,” was her first salvo. Not encouraging.

“Quirky how?” I said, focusing my fury on the silverware. Scrubbing the fuck out of those spoons.

“Oh, well,” she said, vaguely. “You know. He’s really private—like you. He’s got a unique sense of humor. Kind of lives in his own world sometimes.”

“Uh,” I said, because basically, she was describing a freaking serial killer, and I guess she got that, saw it in my face or something, because she said—

“I mean, he’s very sweet. Gentle. And kind. A really good listener.”

“Uh huh,” I said, handing over a dripping plate.

“And when he looks at you,” she said, “it’s like he can see right down into your soul, sometimes. He’s very intense.”

I sighed, because I’d totally lost this battle. I was going on this date and we both knew it and I could either whine about it (tempting) or suck it up and deal with like an hour of awkwardness with some dude I’d never see again, an hour that would earn me a least a month or two of peace. A few weeks free of questions about my stupid love life.

So I gave in.

“What’s he look like?”

She tipped her back into the counter and smiled up at me. “Don’t worry. He’s pretty, Sam.”

I blushed and she laughed and Dean came in, of course, nearly tripped over Pasha in his eagerness to barge the fuck in.

“Ohhh,” he said, waggling his eyebrows at me. “See? He’s pretty, Sam. Just like you. Clearly, it’s meant to be.”

They folded into each other, giggling, and when things got a little too handsy I knew it was our cue to leave.

Dean gave me a hug and Pasha a scritch and I swear they were naked before I made it to the end of the walk.

That’s kismet for you, I guess.

So. Fifteen minutes late and one beer down and I’m just gonna finish the second and then leave.

God. I hate this.

It’s raining so hard that it’s practically a sheet, this curtain of water over the glass that makes it seem even darker somehow.

That’s why I’m still here. The weather. I don’t want to get fucking soaked. It’s only two blocks home, but still. I’ll just wait a little longer.

The bartender’s finally gotten the hint that I’m not interested and now he’s just being a dick, looking pointedly at the flowers and then at me and smirking.

Whatever. Ass.

Almost as big an ass as this Cas guy, whoever he is, because who stands somebody up on a blind date?

Wait. I bet a lot of people, actually.

Fuck.

Suddenly, there’s this huge crack outside, so loud everybody in the place jumps, and the sidewalk gets lit up by this bright snap of lightning.

Wow.

The glass is still shaking and for a second, I think the rain might be moving indoors.

“Hello,” this voice says right in my ear.

Now it’s my turn to jump.

“Uh,” I say. “Hi.”

The raincoat standing next to me has pretty much ceded its coat status and is clinging right to rain, leaving the little dude in it kind of shrunken. I can’t even see his face over the enormous collar that’s turned up under his nose.

“Are you—Sam?” he asks, and oh hey. He does have a face, and wow, those are the bluest fucking eyes I’ve ever seen in my life. Like hi-beams or something. Whoa.

I must be staring, because he frowns.

“Perhaps I have the wrong person,” he says, and starts to turn, and—

“No!” I say, a little too loud. “No. I’m Sam. Hi.”

He looks at me, one giant puddle, and now we’re both staring. It’s—

Something stutters in my chest and it’s kind of fucking amazing, actually. Looking at this guy.

He blinks.

“Hello,” he says again. Formal. “I am Castiel.”

I can feel my face cracking, and it feels like I haven’t smiled in years. “I know,” I say, because I am smooth like that. “Won’t you sit down?”

He looks down at himself, soaking slowly into the floor, and I jump up. Peel the coat off his shoulders and snag it on the peg behind us.

When my fingers accidentally brush his neck, I swear we both shiver.

It’s the weirdest thing. I’ve just met this guy—haven’t even talked to him, really—and I can’t wait to touch him again. To have him touch me.

Weird.

But that’s gotta be a good sign, right?

***

I am late.

It is—unfortunate.

I have been on Earth long enough now to understand many of its rhythms, the ways in which the humans work. Though I find many of their interpersonal interactions to be somewhat mysterious, I feel confident in my knowledge of the basic principles that govern life within their societies. Or at least, this particular one within the United States.

But their transportation systems, I still find—bewildering. Bordering on nonsensical.

Their bus system in particular. There are days when I suspect it was designed by some of their domestic creatures as a joke. Or perhaps by demons.

In truth, I suppose I am still not used to “traveling” in general. Giving up my wings, my ability to fly: that was perhaps the greatest loss I suffered, coming here. Getting out of my brothers’ way.

They are still displeased with me, that I convinced my Father—ours—to let go of his plans for Armageddon. To let the humans go their own way, find their own path.

Admittedly, the path they choose is likely to be bloody. Destructive. But it will be mayhem of their own making, not ours.

I do not know what placed my Father’s original plan in jeopardy, although there were many rumors at the time, almost two years ago, as the human choose to count. Something about a gate staying closed, about demons remaining in their proper place in Hell. But the why for me was irrelevant.

If I am honest with myself—which it is difficult not to be, with all of this time to think, now that I am alone—I must admit that I wanted to best my older brothers, particularly Raphael. He has always seemed so certain, taken such joy at even the thought of a final battle between Heaven and Hell.

I do not enjoy fighting, though I have found, over time, that I am very good at it.

So this crack, this unexpected opportunity, the demons that did not bark in the nighttime, it gave me an idea. One I shared with my Father, who chose to listen to me. To take my advice and to make it His own wisdom.

He was pleased. I think perhaps He had become bored, having known the ending for so long that the story itself was no longer worth telling. He offered me His protection, to stay at His side, like Jesus, but I chose a different path.

I knew that some of my brothers would be angry, and so did He.

I knew that some would try to kill me, and so did He.

So we made what the humans would call a “deal,” and He sent me here, to live among them, in a vessel freely and joyfully given. Here, He can protect me from my brothers, if only because those who despise me hate the humans more, and would not deign to walk among them, even to have their revenge.

But I did have to make some sacrifices. Among them, my wings. My ability to fly.

And so I am at the mercy of buses. Which is why I am late.

The bus at last comes to a halt and I stumble out, peering up in the dark and the water to see the nearest street sign.

I walk.

I do not know why I agreed to do this, to go on this “blind date,” as Lisa called it.

Perhaps because it is difficult to say no to her. She is—alive, so much so that her soul burns with it. She is in love with a man, Dean, who also loves her. I know. I have seen it, tucked into her soul.

I like her. She seems unperturbed by my occasional difficulties with communication. She simply waits patiently why I try and find the right words. That is what makes her so successful at her job, I think. This patience. The children with whom we work often struggle with words, with expressing what it is they are feeling. So she waits, watches their faces carefully, and when they smile, finally, she smiles back. Stretches her arms above her head and shows them how to make their bodies do the same.

I paint. I hand out crayons and pastels and charcoal and together, we draw, the children and I. I find that, when they are facing a blank page, covered in glue and glitter and wielding a rainbow in their hands, the children do not need words. They simply speak.

So when she asked, I said yes, not really knowing what I was agreeing to, only that it was she who had asked, and it sounded pleasant, and I—

I am lonely here. Sometimes.

So I said yes.

Everyone around me has umbrellas, and I wish that I did, too. I turn up the collar on my coat and keep walking, the restaurant’s sign like a sigil up ahead.

I did not ask Lisa many questions about “Sam,” about the person to whom she was sending me, blindly. I think she found this odd, for she filled the silence between us with chatter, which is not like her.

“He’s tall,” she began.

“Tall,” I said. “In human terms?”

Her smile shot across the table. “Yeah, in human terms. Though if you’d ask Dean, he’d say Sam’s more like a moose.”

I considered this.

“Does Sam have antlers?” I asked, for this was the only reason I could think of for such a comparison, given my limited knowledge of moose.

She laughed and waved her mug of coffee at me. “No, Cas,” she said. “No antlers. Just an expression. He’s a big guy, is what Dean means.”

“Oh,” I said, as though I understood. But I did not.

“He’s smart,” she continued. “He’s in school. Did I tell you that? Studying for his Master’s, I think. In history.”

“Oh,” I said again.

The history of what? I thought.

She looked up at me and sighed, her hair dancing across her forehead. “And he’s nice,” she said. “He’s a really good person. Patient. Thoughtful. Deliberate in what he does, what he says.”

I blinked.

“And he’s really cute,” she said with a smirk. “But if you tell Dean I said that, I’ll kill you. I’d never hear the end of it.”

“Then I will not tell him,” I said seriously, and she laughed and threw a napkin at me, for some reason.

So I do not know what he looks like, precisely. A tall, moosey, “cute” man who is smart. This does not give me very much information with which to work in terms of identification.

Still.

I make it to the door of the restaurant just as a terrific roll of thunder strikes, a bolt of lightning on its heels, and for a moment I am certain that I can hear my Father’s voice, gentle and commanding.

Go, He says, and so I do.

Inside, I see him right away and I know: this is Sam. The moose.

He is sitting right next to the window, and if not for the maelstrom, I am sure I would have spotted him from the street.

For he is—beautiful. There is something in him that is familiar, something lost and not quite found. He looks ill at ease and yet there is something in the movements of his head, his hands that make him seem certain.

When I greet him, he is surprised, lost, I suppose, in his own thoughts. About “history,” no doubt.

We exchange awkward pleasantries, he frees me from my sopping coat, and when his fingers brush my neck, I swear that we both shiver.

It is—interesting. Unexpected.

We eat, we talk, we drink.

“So,” Sam says, over what he tells me is his third beer. “Lisa said that you’re an artist? That you work with kids?”

“Yes,” I say, over what I know is my first Jack and Coke. Ever.

He tilts his head, his hair tumbling out from behind his ears.

“Where do you find the patience for that?” he asks. “I mean, I love Ben—Lisa’s son? My nephew?—but he wears me out faster than anything.” He smiles, a long, floppy grin. “And I thought I was an inquisitive kid. Man. I got nothing on that one. A thousand questions a minute.”

I smile back. I cannot help it.

“I have worked with—children for a long time,” I say. Which is true. “I suppose that I have learned to develop patience.”

He nods. Encouraging.

“What I have learned is that one must treat them as equals, those who are very young. They have much to learn. There is much they do not know, that they have not yet experienced. But,” I lean across the table, feeling as if I am sharing a secret, “there is much they know that we cannot understand. That we have forgotten. And that is where my patience comes from. Knowing that I will learn from them, as they will do from me.”

The look that he gives me, then, is one of complete delight.

“Wow,” he says, his face glowing. “That is—that’s amazing, Cas.”

I blink.

“Um,” I say, suddenly shy under his gaze. “Thank you.”

He smiles at me, his fingers turning over his glass. Wet.

Outside, the rain is fading.

We eat. We drink. We talk.

I ask about his studies. He explains them to me, his expression serious, and I can tell it is important to him, his work.

He studies languages and ancient cultures. Cultures that are ancient to him, that is. I find myself tempted to tell him about the Babylonians, to draw him a portrait of Lot’s daughters, to read him the drink menu in ancient Greek.

I do none of these things.

He stops to take a breath, to eat a few bites, and I find I miss his voice.

“So,” I say, trying not to stare at his hands, these long beautiful creatures that move with a will of their own. “How did you become interested in this subject? Enough to devote so much of your life to its study?”

He blushes and ducks his head.

“Um,” he says. “It’s—I guess you could say it’s something I grew up with. Part of the family business.”

“Ah,” I say, rattling the ice in my glass. Of my second Jack and Coke. “Your mother was an archeologist? Perhaps your father?”

He looks up and grins, his awkwardness forgotten.

“Something like that,” he says. “Yeah.”

He leans forward until his head nearly meets mine.

The noise, the rain, the other people in close proximity: all of it fades away until the center of my focus, my being, is on him. Sam.

“I like you, Cas,” he whispers. As if he were sharing a secret.

“I like you, too, Sam,” I say, my fingers moving over his cheek. Daring.

He smiles down at me and sits back, and I am happier than I have been in a long, long time.

We eat. We drink. We talk.

After dessert, he tells me about his brother, the same Dean who belongs to Lisa, whom I have never met but whose image I can see woven neatly into her soul, if I choose to look.

“He’s an idiot,” Sam says gleefully, his hands swinging. “I love him and he’s my brother, but, god, he is such an idiot sometimes!”

“Brothers are often like that, yes,” I say, watching his eyes widen.

He tips low over the table again. “You have a brother?”

“I have—several,” I admit.

He studies me, his head tilting, and I know what those ancient texts must feel like, as he turns their pages.

“Are you the youngest?” he says.

“I am—not the oldest. Most of my brothers are older than I,” I say, and this is true, even if it is not the whole truth.

He smiles.

“Maybe that’s why we’re getting along,” he says, shoving his bangs out of his eyes. “Because we’re both used to being bullied, a little. To having other people tell us what to do. People who love us and everything, sure. But still. Being bossed around sucks.”

I feel my face stretch into a grin. “Yes, it does,” I say. “It sucks.”

He laughs, this beautiful unrestrained sound that says everything about who he is when he is happy, who he might be if he were to take all of the crayons out of the box and sketch out his life without restraint.

It startles me, this thought.

And I realize something.

I realize that I do not need words, with him. That I no longer wish to talk.

That I want us only to speak, one to the other. And to listen.

I catch his wrist in my free hand, and he stops laughing. Looks down as though I am burning his skin and perhaps I am, a little.

“Cas,” he says, that shy smile just for me. “What is it?”

“Sam,” I say. And I kiss him, my lips moving over his wrist, catching his pulse between my teeth.

“Oh!” he says, his heart fluttering under my tongue. “Oh, ok.” He flushes and tugs at my hand. Pushes his smile into my knuckles and reaches for his wallet.

When we leave, I clutch the flowers in one hand and Sam’s fingers in the other, and together, we sail out into the night.

I let him lead, for he seems to know the way, wherever it is we are going, and as it does not involve buses, I feel confident in my ability to find my way back.

If necessary.

His dwelling is in an aging townhouse, well maintained and solid. Practical. With an elderly and unyielding front door.

He has to let go of my hand to get the door open and it hurts, not touching him.

I think he feels this, too, for he reaches for me as we climb the stairs, as he works his way into a second door, into a dark apartment, and as soon as we are inside, he slides his arms around my waist and tugs, pulls me into him and pushes his mouth into mine.

It is.

It is—

I drop the flowers, their scent crushed beneath his boots and sweet. So sweet.

I find my arms twining around his neck, my lips breaking open at the touch of his tongue, my body singing in the most extraordinary way, when we kiss.

He makes a soft little sound, incongruous—for he is very tall, for a human—and reaches for my face. Stroking. His nails over my cheek. Under my jaw.

My back knocks into the wall and he folds himself over me, surrounds me with all of his warmth. All of his life.

Behind my eyes, I see red and purple and green, violet and magenta and gold, and I.

I am happy.

***

When I kiss him, I try to convince myself that it’s just physical, whatever this weird energy is between us.

That it isn’t kismet.

That it’s just because I haven’t gotten laid in a year. That I’m just ready for the first warm body to stumble my way, to give me the time of day.

But when I feel his fingers in my hair, the hot slip of his tongue over my teeth, I know: it’s more than that.

I mean, I could have slept with Roger. Or Tim. Or that guy at the bar after finals last month, the one who smelled like cigarettes and Bud Light Lime.

But I didn’t.

Now maybe I know why.

Cas tilts up, tries to push his whole body into my hands, and I groan, dig my hands into his hips and kiss him harder, let myself get sloppy and a little loud.

He echoes me, growls somewhere in his chest and lets his head fall back. Lets me get all the way in.

It’s incredible. He is.

We’re kissing and it’s awesome and then I bang him into the bookshelf, accidently, a shower of paperbacks falling over our heads.

“Um,” I say, pulling away. “Hold on. Sorry. Let me get the light.”

I flip on the lamp and it seems a little more real, then. Like, I don’t know. I feel shy, I guess, with him seeing my books everywhere. My papers. My random furniture that doesn’t really match. Like he’s really seeing me for the first time.

I wasn’t expecting visitors, I guess.

I mean, I can’t say I wasn’t hoping. I did send Pasha over to Dean and Lisa’s house for the night.

“Just in case,” I’d said. “I might be out late.”

“Riiiight,” Dean’d said with a leer, slapping my shoulder and snagging Pash’s leash. “Just in case.”

“Um,” I say to Cas, trying not to look at him too hard because his eyes are so fucking wide, his mouth open and slack and his face? God. He looks like a freaking angel and I kind of want him to dump me on the floor right here and fuck me straight into next week.

I clear my throat. “So, uh. This is my apartment.”

“Yes,” he says, calm, like he wasn’t sucking on my tongue 30 seconds ago. “I had discerned that.”

I start to flail, a little, feel my limbs pick up that mind of their own, and why am I doing this, again? What the hell was I thinking, bringing this guy I don’t know home on the first date? On a blind date, for Christ’s sake? I don’t—

“Um,” I repeat, because Cas makes me reach for the monosyllables. “So. I. Do you?”

He stares up at me, his fingers on my waist, and it’s like Lisa said, all of a sudden, because I swear he’s looking right into my soul. And that should feel weird, I guess, or even creepy. But it doesn’t.

“Sam,” he says, serious. “I would like to kiss you again.”

“I—ok,” I say.

“Preferably without clothing,” he says, in that same tone, the one that makes it sound like he’s reading the Ten Commandments. “And in a horizontal position.”

“Um,” I manage, all the blood in my brain running for the border. “Yeah. Ok. I’d like that.”

He smiles, this dark secret thing that sends a pulse straight through me, one that says: oh yeah. There’s something special here, between us.

“Yes,” he says, reaching for my belt. “You will.”

***

Having my mouth on Sam’s skin reminds me of divinity.

Of what divinity felt like to me, once. When the Earth was new.

I catalogue it now, as I did then.

When I drag my tongue over his ribs, he moans for me, his body stuttering.

When I slide my fingers across his neck, down his throat, he laughs, his chest running hot and red beneath me.

When I bite my name into his hips, smooth them over with my palms, he keens, his cock moving over my cheek.

He begs for me to touch him. Digs his hands into my shoulders and his nails into my hair and pleads with his body, his voice.

We are both naked, now, and I pin him between my knees, our hips mashed together, his mouth sloppy and lovely under mine.

He is smiling and groaning in the same breath, his hands locked on my thighs, his breath breaking in his chest as he rocks into me, pulls me into him.

“Cas,” he sighs, that deep voice stretching into a whine. “Please. Suck my cock. Please. Or let me—I can’t, it’s been. I can’t, I—”

I take pity on him, on myself, and slide down his body. Hold him in my fist and take him in.

Those long fingers dig into my shoulders, scrape over my ears, and he calls my name so loudly that, for a moment, I think that if ever my brothers were to choose a moment in which to intervene, to interfere in my new life, this would be it. One of such beauty and joy.

But they do not, and so I revel in the burn of Sam’s flesh within my own as he screams, his body a long fluid arch, and comes, hot and sweet in the back of my throat.

When I sit up, his face is soft. Stunned.

I push my smile into his mouth, sketch it into his lips, and he—

He devours me.

He tugs me onto my side, wraps his legs around mine, and I come over his beautiful hands, his breath on my neck as he whispers:

“Cas. Cas. Cas.”

And for the first time on Earth, I realize.

I am exactly where I am supposed to be. And with whom.

Ah. My Father is indeed wise, sometimes.

***

In the morning, it should be awkward. And it is, a little.

He sings in the shower. I’m down to one clean towel. He likes coffee and I only have tea.

He sneaks up behind me while I’m fumbling with breakfast and we make out until the eggs start burning and the smoke detector goes off.

He takes me to the coffee shop on the corner and buys me breakfast.

We take up a four-top and just grin at each other like idiots. Talking without any noise.

Finally, he has to go, and I kiss him in the bus shelter until he’s reeling, working his hips against me and making all kinds of filthy promises with his mouth.

“Sam,” he breathes, and it’s like a blessing, when he says it.

“Yeah,” I grin, my lips against his cheek. “Yeah.”

He’s coming over after work.

I go to pick up Pasha and Dean wants details. As many as possible. He’s covered in sawdust and rocking the power saw in the fucking garage and still: he wants details.

“Dude,” I say, rubbing Pasha’s belly. “It went good, ok? He was nice.”

He gives me the death stare, which is kinda belied by the smirk.

“Nice?” he says. “Sammy. Come on. This is me you’re talking to. You so got laid.”

I keep my eyes fixed on Pash and my face mirrors her big doggy grin.

“So what if I did?” I say, and Dean howls and starts dancing around like he’s the one who got some.

“I like this guy,” I say, after he’s calmed down. “I mean, a lot. He’s really—I mean, he’s like—” I get a little stupid with the grinning and I can’t find the right words to say it. So I don’t.

He looks at me, and the sneer and the smirk fall away and he lets the real happy shine through.

“Yeah,” he says. “I can tell, the way you talk about him.” He shakes his head, grinning. “But I don’t remember you falling for anybody this fast before, you know? You’re usually a lady-in-fucking-waiting, it seems like.”

“Yeah,” I say. “But this was kismet.”

He laughs and picks up the saw.

“Dumb luck, Sammy,” he says. “And trust me: there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Kismet,” I whisper to Pasha. “Just like that.”

She just smiles up at me, and we don’t have to say a word.


End file.
